


Et puis je fume

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [48]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anderson in heels, Anderson is suprisingly pretty, Crossdressing, Dancing, F/M, Gen, Lestrade in heels, M/M, Mycroft in heels, Sally Donovan as a Drag King, Sherlock in Heels, Undercover, Undercover As Prostitute, cabaret, crossdressing cabaret drag acts and undercover ops gone a bit wrong, oops the target picks the wrong dancer, saucy cabaret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The British Goverment, the Met and the World's Only Consulting Detective and his Blogger are working together on a case. By dressing in drag and pimping one of them out to an international spy and mutilator of prostitutes.</p><p>Only something goes a bit wrong, and the wrong cross-dressing dancing boy gets taken away for mutiliation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Et puis je fume

**Author's Note:**

> So. This story has many antecedents. I wanted Sherlock to sing _Sympathique_ as a torch song while in drag. Someone asked for more Sherlock and Sally interaction. Atlinmerrick has been writing a wonderful story about Sherlock and John's wedding, which has involved a lot of lovely men in frocks and high heels and it kind of stuck in my head. Plus, I like Tad Anderson dancing and the idea of Greg Lestrade as a sexy pirate. So here we have it - a big ol' mashup.
> 
> The title is from _[Sympathique](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nLaY4aksfRo)_ by Pink Martini and means 'and then I smoke'. Other songs in the story are Nancy Sinatra's _These Boots Are Made for Walking_ and Cole Porter's _Let's Misbehave_.

The show in the exclusive back parlour of Miss Hortensia’s Delectable Drag Cabaret had so far been no more than pleasant: less ribald than these places often were, though certainly more musically talented than Emil Tasker had expected. He liked that. He liked talented, especially musically. Especially the dancers.

Tasker leaned back in the generous armchair, glass of fine tokay in one hand, slender French cigarillo in the other, and watched the performers sway onstage, arm in arm. As the opening notes of Nancy Sinatra’s iconic song began, he watched them closely.

The three dancers strutted out in a line, steps crossing in confident strides, mouths pouting attractively. Tasker dismissed the centre dancer right away. Drag King. Nice enough looking and well made up. The tailored suit and slicked back hair combined with the little beard to masculinise the woman’s strong features. The boots under the obviously expensive grey suit had a solid heel, but high. She looked like she could very sexily kick down doors. Her dark eyes had a bright challenge in them too. Tasker knew women and men who would have enjoyed a few hours with that one, but his own tastes ran otherwise.

The man in semi-drag on the drag king’s right was something. Older than usual for this kind of game, but very pretty indeed, eyes made up with kohl and lips glistening with just the right shade of coral. His black pants were skin tight and the red corset was laced tight over a flowing pirate shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned to the breast line so there was no mistaking the dancer for a woman: yet for a man, he had a roll to his hips and thighs that was downright come hither. The five inch stiletto heels on the thigh-high boots were something to behold as well.  Definitely a contender.

On the other side of the besuited drag king was a fey little thing. Slender and fawn-like, eyes kohled to beautiful effect, cheekbones artfully blushed, this one wore a pixie-like set of tights and green suede boots on tall, narrow heels. The soft leather laced waistcoat completed the Peter Pan effect. Tasker was no stranger to the theatre and had loved pantomime as a child. Girls dressed as Peter Pan, striking poses and swinging across the stage, full of swash and buckle. This dancer had some of that sweet, effeminate swagger about him. An interesting approach, Tasker thought, with those two men, opting for androgynous rather than outright drag.

Very pretty indeed.

Oh, and the little one was an excellent dancer, though the pirate was something wonderful to behold. What a gorgeous arse on him. But oh, Peter Pan’s tush was rolling just as nicely. Enticingly. And there he was, leading the king in a short two-step, switching partners to dance with the pirate, and then three of them strutting to the front of the stage together with their boots. Made for walking.

Tasker smiled, finished his glass and signalled for another. Then he leaned over a little in his chair, towards the man seated in the armchair next to him. Tacky bastard, Tasker thought. No need to dress like a pimp just because you are one. The man was drinking whisky, straight up, and staring at the back of the stage. Rings gleamed in the light on several fingers, and chains gleamed at his neck, five or six loops of them. His left ear sparkled with a diamond stud. The man’s hair was slicked back with a touch too much gel. Showing off his success, no doubt. Tasker would have dispensed with him as the middle man, if it had been at all possible.

“Miller.”

“One more,” said the pimp, his accent just a shade too mockney. He really was horrible, Tasker thought, but then, pimps generally were

“All right,” he conceded, “One more.”

The lights dipped and then came up on a baby grand. The pianist was in shadow, though in deference to the nature of the cabaret, he was elegantly made up too. Not pretty, perhaps, but striking in a Marlene Dietrich kind of way, especially in that silky pants suit. He began to play and the spotlight caught the graceful entrance of the star act.

That incredible creature swayed onto the stage, full hips and luscious derriere rolling in the most womanly fashion. One long, pale leg appeared tantalizingly from the thigh-high split in the splendid, sparkling gown, showing a glimpse of lacy garter. The singer’s feet ended in long, wicked heels, black velvet except for the golden glow of the spike.

_Ma chambre a la forme d'une cage  
Le soleil passe son bras par la fenêtre_

Her voice was deep but the singer modulated the baritone well, bringing it up an octave, making it more sultry than masculine. Oh, he was good, this one. Utterly femme, the torch singer draped herself over the piano, her leg crooked and raised, showing off its smooth, pale length, and she looked up at the audience of two through her lashes. Her mouth was a perfect cupid’s bow, painted in the most sinful red.

 _Les chasseurs à ma porte_  
Comme les p'tits soldats  
Qui veulent me prendre 

Now _this_ , Tasker thought with a connoisseur’s appreciation, was how it was done. The singer pushed herself away from the piano and in those impossible heels swanned across the stage to sing at the footlights.

 _Je ne veux pas travailler_  
Je ne veux pas déjeuner  
Je veux seulement l'oublier  
Et puis je fume

At this, she clicked her fingers and the king strutted over to offer her a cigarette in a holder that matched the singer’s shoes. The singer place the holder between her ruby lips, batted her lashes at the king and sashayed away to flutter her lashes this time at the Peter Pan. The lovely little thing danced over, with such petite grace, to light it for her.

With the next few lines, she took long, exaggerated tango-like steps towards the little fellow, and ah, wasn’t he lovely, the way he took that statuesque creature and danced her across the stage as she sang. Tiny fellow, but so confident on those heels, not dominated at all, but rather helping her across the floor in the most sweetly gentlemanly – or gentleboyishly – fashion.

 _Je ne suis pas fière de sa_  
Vie qui veut me tuer  
C'est magnifique être Sympathique  
Mais je ne le connais jamais 

And now Peter Pan had his hands at her waist and they did a little _pas de deux_ together over the chorus.

 _Je ne veux pas travailler_  
Non  
Je ne veux pas dejeuner  
Je veux seulement l'oublier  
Et puis je fume 

It was a treat to watch them finish, that gorgeous Amazonian creature and her petite, androgynous suitor.

Tasker leaned over to Miller and nodded. “How much for him?”

“Oh, she’s a rare one,” Miller said, smiling in an oily fashion, “Legs up to…”

“No, no,” said Tasker impatiently. “The little one.”

“The…?”

The man had no right to look so startled. Pimps surely made their money where they could. Sure enough, he recovered quickly. “Of course. He is rather…sweet, isn’t he?”

“I could eat him up with a spoon,” Tasker agreed, not taking his eyes off those dancer’s legs, that firm dancer’s backside, that sweet face that was so confident when he danced, and so shy when he stopped. Oh yes. Lovely. Just perfect.

“Two thousand for the evening,” said the pimp, getting admirably down to business.

Tasker pulled out his wallet and handed a roll of notes to Miller. “A little extra there,” he said, eyes still on his prize, “Make up for any little… bumps and bruises, yeah?”

Miller had counted the extra grand. His frown at the words became the speculative glint that Tasker was used to. They were all alike. They’d take a little extra now. And then later, when the extent of the… bumps and bruises… was clear. Well, they wouldn’t find him then, would they?

Miller nodded at the stage and the tall beauty smiled and took one step towards the stairs beside the stage, only to halt in puzzlement at Miller’s sharp shake of the head. Miller jerked his chin at Peter Pan.  The beauty pouted a sulky moue, but leaned down to whisper in the little one’s ear.

Tasker’s prize gasped – how adorably Austen-esque of him – but then cast a shy look towards Tasker. A little shy smile, then, too, while the tall one said something else then kissed him on the cheek and stroked his hair. Peter Pan pressed his fingers to the spot, but did not take his soft eyes from Tasker as he walked to the stairs, a little bravado, a little uncertainty, oh just like the Peter Pans of old, the effeminate boy, the lovely little thing.

“Be a good boy tonight,” Miller stopped the dancer, and, with a warm, encouraging smile tinged with an undercurrent of warning, he whispered: “Do whatever he asks tonight, sweetheart. There’s something special in it for you.” Miller took one of the many rings from his left hand and slipped it onto the dancer’s ring finger. Peter Pan stared at it. “And something more tomorrow, if he’s happy with you, yeah?” Miller patted the newly ringed hand, then kissed the fingers.

The dancer seemed to take courage from the gesture. “I’ll do you proud, Bobby,” he said.

“There’s my good lad.”

The good lad held his slender hand out then, and Tasker, smiling, took it, and led his pretty Peter Pan out to his car.

**

The door had just closed behind Tasker and his chosen hooker for the night when the beauty on stage gave a furious shriek around the cigarette holder in her teeth.

“There’s always _something_!”

She swept into the wings with a fearsome toss of her head.

“He’s just gone off with Tad. With _Tad_!” the drag king plucked at the edges of the goatee while yelling at the departing torch singer. “ _That was not the plan_!”

“I _know_ that was not the plan, Sally!” Sherlock hurled back, still around the cigarette holder. He came back onstage with a tablet in one hand. He flung it onto the piano top and began swiping and typing furiously on its surface. “Tasker always went for the _pretty_ ones. The ones that made an effort to look like _women_.” He stood back for a moment, gestured imperiously at his impeccable gown and shoes and shaved legs, _goddamnit_ , before jabbing at the tablet again. “It wasn’t obvious he was into _delicate_. The whole point was for Tad and Greg to look androgynous. He was supposed to pick _me_. Here’s the signal. Both of them.”

“Both?” asked the slinky pirate, known to his wife as DI Hot, “I thought John gave him the tracker.”

“I did,” John said. He scowled and plucked the cigarette and holder out of Sherlock’s mouth, then proceeded to pull the diamond earring out from his own ear and tug off rings to stow in his pockets, “But Sherlock gave him the one from his…” John gestured at Sherlock’s slicked-back hair-do, held in place with pins and combs. One lock of hair was falling noticeably out of place now.

Greg Lestrade’s puzzled look cleared. “I thought it was odd you kissing him goodbye.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I slipped the device into his hair and told him not to fuss with it. Tasker might make him take off the ring if he suspects something, but that should… there they go.”

Mycroft had been making phone calls while these exchanges were taking place. “They’re moving quickly. You’d better go, Sally. Here.” He handed his wife a GPS tracker on which a little blue light blinked and moved.

Sally seized it and ran out into the car park, followed closely by the rest of the drag crew and their make-believe pimp. She swung onto her motorbike, only to find Sherlock right beside her, hitching up and tearing the skirt of his frock so that he could straddle his stockinged legs across the seat behind her.

She dismissed arguing with him about it. She didn’t have the time for it. If he wanted to come along, fine. It was half his fault anyway, the plan going awry like this.

“If you fall off, I’m not stopping for you,” she said and he just held on tight to her waist as they took off, following the GPS light she’d mounted on the dash.

Behind her, John, Mycroft and Greg slid into the black sedan, Greg at the wheel, and followed the motorbike.

“Bloody hell,” Greg muttered, pulling out of the car park, “It’s easier to dance and run in these things than drive in them.”

**

Tasker extended his arm across the seat and smiled encouragingly at his Peter Pan. “Come on closer, baby boy,” he said teasingly, “I won’t bite. Not till we’re home.” He did a little tiger growl and snap of the teeth, very playful.

Tad swallowed but inched closer. A lot was at stake, and they trusted him with this. It wasn’t the plan, but well, it’s what they had now. And they trusted him to do this right, to do what Sherlock was supposed to do, and catch this sick bastard, then get whatever it was Mycroft wanted from the guy. National security, apparently, depended on it, even though none of them knew what that meant. Well, Sally probably did. Sherlock probably did too. John might. Right, so it was only him and the DI without a clue. And they might have told Greg.

_Right. So it’s just me in the dark. Still. Queen and Country. And John and Sherlock trusted me to do this. Gave me both trackers and everything, instead of trying to get me out of it, so they must think I can._

Tasker was starting to look a bit annoyed, so Tad made the effort to relax his posture, to wriggle a bit closer in the seat, to run his hand along Tasker’s thigh.

“Bit nervous,” he said, tilting his chin down and looking up through his lashes the way he’d seen Sherlock doing during rehearsals, “You’re my first big customer.” Tad was quite proud of the way he emphasised _big_ while eyeing Tasker’s crotch. It certainly put Tasker in a better mood.

The car slowed and stopped at some traffic lights and Tasker, well pleased with the situation now, nosed Tad’s painted cheek, kissed it, then used his large hand to turn Tad’s face his way. Then Tasker kissed him.

Tad closed his eyes and tried to think of Charlotte, but that was just awful and made him want to cry, so he tried to think of Sally instead. That was almost worse. Desperate not to flinch, he thought of Sherlock kissing his cheek as he slipped the pin into his hair, and that he could just about cope with. He closed his eyes, and pretended Sherlock was doing something stupid for a case. _Oh Christ, there’s tongue now._ Sherlock did stupid things all the time for cases. Like getting dressed up to the nines in a sparkly frock and heels and make-up and looking better in it that half the women Tad knew.

_Prat. Big, lanky, elegant prat, in sequins. Pillock. Sparkly pillock. Utter git with no right for his arse to look that good in a clinging gown. No right at all. Utter bastard._

The lights changed and Tasker let him go, with an enormous, satisfied grin. “That’s better, baby boy, a little spice there.”

Tad, panting a little for breath, looked up through his false lashes again and managed a smile.

_I am going to kill you, Sherlock Holmes. If you get me out of this alive._

**

They reached Tasker’s rented apartments and Tasker, all very gentlemanly, offered Tad his arm to help him out of the car. Tad was feeling a little wobbly in his heels and took the steadying hand gladly, and even leaned on Tasker’s strong arm all the way through the underground car park and up the lift. Tad hoped it would mask his nerves and maybe give Tasker the impression that his ‘baby boy’ was all fired up by his height and all those muscles.

Tad was wondering if he was going to have to have sex with a man before the night was through. Maybe he could do that. For the case. For the nation. _Jesus._ As long as they got him out before Tasker tied him to the bed and cut his ear off for his sick collection, maybe he could do that. That was the point after all, wasn’t it? After his string of mutilated male prostitutes everywhere from St Petersburg to Adelaide, to catch him in the act and use that as leverage for getting at his other, more lucrative pasttime in buying and selling secrets.

Tasker led Tad to the living room and poured them both a drink.

Tad decided that he really, really, _really_ needed to stall for time. He took his glass, smiled, then prowled over to the music player. An ipod was slotted into the dock already.

“Would you like me to dance for you, sugar?”

“Ah, baby boy, I’d love that.” Tasker settled himself on the sofa, arms spread along its back, legs spread wide, showing off the bulge in his pants. “You’re a beautiful mover. Give me a dance, then you can come take care of this.” He thrust his hips in a slow roll upwards, just in case Tad had missed his meaning.

Tad smiled, licked his lips (he was trying very, very hard to not have a panic attack). He picked up the iPod, scrolled through until he found a suitable track, then popped it back onto the dock. The melody began and Tad struck his pose. Thank goodness for this song. He’d won a silver medal for a jazz freeform to this song when he was still at uni. He could remember it well enough to at least improvise from there.

_You could have a great career_

_Yes you could, yes you could_

_Only one thing stops you dear_

_You’re too good, way too good…_

Too soon the song was coming to a close, with that cry of _let’s misbehaaaave_ , and Tasker was right up against him, tugging his body close to dance (rather poorly, in Tad’s estimation).

“You are such a pretty little thing,” Tasker crooned in his ear, “Such lovely ears too. Shell-like, is what they say.” Tasker kissed the ear in question. Nibbled it. “Not sure I can wait. I think I’ll have my souvenir right now, baby boy, before I tie you to the bed. It’s heaps more fun that way.” He held Tad tight, too tight, making him gasp for air, “All that whimpering and begging and the blood goes straight into the mattress. Good thing I’ll be leaving tonight. Don’t worry, honey, they’ll find you in the morning.”

Tad heard the snick of the switchblade and for a moment his only thought was _at least I didn’t have to have sex with him first_.

His second thought, as he felt the bite of the blade at the top of his ear, was to bring his stiletto-booted heel slamming down on the front of Tasker’s shoe, forcing the metal heel right through the leather and into Tasker’s foot.

Tasker shrieked, but the sound was lost as the front door crashed in. Tad reeled away, hand clamped to his bleeding ear as he saw...

Sally Donovan in her grey suit and half a beard bearing down on Tasker with a ferocious snarl while, at the same time, a tall, lanky, beautiful pillock in a torn dress that showed off his god-they-go-forever legs also bore down on the target.

Sally wrenched Tasker around and punched him. Sherlock grabbed Tasker’s wrist, twisting it and disarming him. Sally jabbed her fingers, held rigid as a blade, into Tasker’s solar plexus and, while he was doubled over, Sherlock twisted his fingers in the man’s hair, yanked his head to one side and held him while Sally punched him in the temple. With a howl, Tasker dropped to the floor.

At that moment, Greg – moving very swiftly for a man in high heels – and John swept into the room and behind them sauntered Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft surveyed the scene while Greg investigated the rest of the apartment, ensuring it was otherwise empty.

John made a beeline for Tad, who was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, blood seeping over his fingers as he stared wide-eyed at Sherlock and Sally.

“Let me see,” John was saying, pulling his fingers down. Tad had the unreasonable feeling that if he let go, his ear would fall off.

“My ear will fall off,” he said, voice rasping.

“Let me just see a bit. There you go.” John coaxed his fingers away a little, “It’s fine. Just a little nick. It’s bleeding a lot but you’ll hardly need stitches. One or two at most. I can do those for you right here.  Hold on.” He rose and went to the kitchen where he scrubbed his hands with dish soap.

That’s when Tad noticed John had his medical kit with him.

“Is this what it’s like for you? All the time?” Tad blurted out.

John grinned. “Some of it, yeah. Though I usually avoid getting put in heels. I’m as graceful as an arthritic duck in those things.” He followed the soaping with a generous blob of antiseptic cleanser from his bag, followed by a pair of surgical gloves pulled over his steady hands.

“Not like Sherlock.” Tad said while John began to mop up the blood.              

“Yeah, well that fancy prat pranced around the house in those things all week to get the feel of them. You should have seen how many dresses he tried on. He was a right princess about it.”

“He does look good, though,” Tad conceded. “Convincing, I mean.”

“He tells me it’s all to do with the foundation garments,” John replaced bloodied gauze with clean pads, “This will sting a bit.” He sprayed something on the wound.

“You mean… he’s got lacy panties on under that lot?”

“Stockings, lacy knickers, wonder bra, the lot. He’s very thorough.”

“He’s a thorough _idiot_ ,” came Sherlock’s own voice, scathing about his own deficiencies as much as anyone else’s, “I should have _realised_.”

Tad managed a weak laugh. “You’re just pissed off because he thought I was prettier than you. Even without the frilly knickers.” Tad caught the look Sally gave Sherlock’s truncated frock started to giggle in earnest.

“They are proper foundation garments,” said Sherlock stiffly, “Mycroft has them too.”

Sally kept giving Sherlock that sardonic look. “I know he does. I helped pick them.” She pulled the last ziplock tight on her prisoner’s wrists.

“Well, then.”

Sally maintained her raised eyebrow and smirking mouth for one moment longer before snorting out a laugh. Sherlock rolled his eyes and John returned to the kitchen to dump gloves and bloodied gauze into the bin.

Greg got back to the living room, checked that Sally and Sherlock had the tying up of the miscreant under control and dropped onto the sofa to pull off his heels. Given that they were laced to the thigh and creaked when he sat down, it was going to take some doing.

“Leave them on, Greg,” said Sherlock, annoyed and wearied by the fussing.

Greg stared down at his whole pirate get-up and heels. “Might as well,” he said resignedly, then he grinned. “Molly’ll love this get up.”

Everyone pretended not to hear him.

“Can’t get my boots off,” Tad said suddenly. He’d been trying, but his hands were shaking with reaction.

To Tad’s surprise, it was Sherlock who crouched (frock hitched unfeasibly high) to help unlace the things. Sally dropped down at the other leg and between them they loosened the boots and eased them off Tad’s feet. He put his stockinged feet on the floor and blinked up at them, a bit owlishly. He felt light-headed.

“Thanks.”

“You did really well tonight, Taddy,” Sally told him, smiling warmly. He began to smile back, but over her shoulder Tad caught a glimpse of her husband, glowering slightly and looking formidable, even in dramatic make-up and a Marlene Dietrich pants suit and heels. He swallowed.

Then Sherlock Holmes reached out and ran his fingers through Tad’s hair. Sherlock’s hand came away with the pin in his fingers.  Then he reached out again and took Tad gently by the jaw, tilting his head to one side so that Sherlock could see the damage. It was a little like Tasker in the car, but since Sherlock wasn’t trying to kiss him (and god, wasn’t that a relief, given how Tad had got through it the first time) it didn’t feel bad.

Sherlock tapped a finger against Tad’s rouged cheekbone, softly, using the touch to indicate the wound. “You did… well, Anderson. Fast thinking with the dance.”

Tad blinked and determined not to ask how Sherlock knew, and then saw the signs himself. The scuff marks on the recently vacuumed carpet, the new Cole Porter song still playing on the sound system, the fact that Tasker had been grabbing him in a dance hold when the others burst into the room.

“I won a silver medal with that dance,” he said.

“I… miscalculated. About Tasker and his taste in entertainment. I…”

For a horrible moment, it looked as though Sherlock was going to apologise and Tad didn’t know if he could stand that.

“Not such a hotshot then,” Tad said over the pause.

Sherlock paused, lips parted, then he closed his mouth, pressed his lips together and, instead of sniping, said: “Not always. No.”

“I’d take heart from you being fallible, except I nearly lost an ear.”

“It could only have improved your looks.”

“Ha fucking ha.”

“And now we have your renowned banter coming into play.”

“Prat.”

“Idiot.”

“Twats,” said Sally, but she was grinning. She turned to Mycroft. “Swap you?”

“Before the clean-up crew arrives,” he concurred, “Yes.”

They disappeared into another room and emerged ten minutes later, Mycroft now in the suit and chunky heels and Sally in the pants suit.

Tad closed his eyes briefly, then opened them to see Tasker glaring up at him from the floor. Tad grinned.

“These are my friends, Mr Tasker,” he said, “And they can kick your arse to from here to Timbuk Tu even when they’re all in heels.”

He leaned a little closer, eyes sparkling. “And if you think we’re something when we dance, you should hear us sing.”

 


End file.
